 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
339
NOVEMBER.
“When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare.”
Burns.
Made fields and forests bare.”
Burns.
Hoarse trumpeters are in the sky,
From which a dripping rain is shed—
Onward in wedge-like form they fly,
By leader piloted:
A flourish of the feathered band
Announces that they seek a land
Of sunniness and flowers—
Blue waters, edged by golden sand,
Flashing through tropic bowers.
From which a dripping rain is shed—
Onward in wedge-like form they fly,
By leader piloted:
A flourish of the feathered band
Announces that they seek a land
Of sunniness and flowers—
Blue waters, edged by golden sand,
Flashing through tropic bowers.
Erewhile the Frost-King's brush arrayed
In magic hues the rustling bough,
But colors of a darker shade
Are on his palette now;
Well may the artist, in despair,
His leaf-inwoven canvas tear,
And deem his work accursed—
His latest pictures ill compare
With those he painted first.
In magic hues the rustling bough,
But colors of a darker shade
Are on his palette now;
Well may the artist, in despair,
His leaf-inwoven canvas tear,
And deem his work accursed—
His latest pictures ill compare
With those he painted first.
From the cold stubble-field ascends
The lonely whistle of the quail;
And mournfully the forest bends
Its brown top, in the gale,
From which no leafy banner streams—
Its unroofed fane by passing gleams
Of sunshine is uncheered;
Each trunk memorial-pillar seems
On Beauty's grave upreared.
The lonely whistle of the quail;
And mournfully the forest bends
Its brown top, in the gale,
From which no leafy banner streams—
Its unroofed fane by passing gleams
Of sunshine is uncheered;
Each trunk memorial-pillar seems
On Beauty's grave upreared.
340
The forest-trees that shook of late,
Their many-tinted flags in air,
Disrobed, and in a crownless state,
Distinctive features wear:
Like a crazed maiden in her woe,
Swinging her thin arms to and fro,
The wind-swept willow mark!
While mist creeps o'er the meadows low,
And clouds, above, grow dark.
Their many-tinted flags in air,
Disrobed, and in a crownless state,
Distinctive features wear:
Like a crazed maiden in her woe,
Swinging her thin arms to and fro,
The wind-swept willow mark!
While mist creeps o'er the meadows low,
And clouds, above, grow dark.
How pleadingly yon Poplar stands,
Wan trembler in the dismal wood:
Like some poor wretch, with up-flung hands,
Spurned by oppressor rude;
The Elm, aside his helmet cast,
Looks like a warrior, quelled at last,
Who courts the deadly stroke—
Bold wrestler with the surly blast,
Towers, athlete-like, the Oak!
Wan trembler in the dismal wood:
Like some poor wretch, with up-flung hands,
Spurned by oppressor rude;
The Elm, aside his helmet cast,
Looks like a warrior, quelled at last,
Who courts the deadly stroke—
Bold wrestler with the surly blast,
Towers, athlete-like, the Oak!
November of forbidding mien
Is busy by the wood and rill,
Changing to russet aught of green,
Or bright, found lingering still:
He treads in wrath the forest-floor
And dead leaves fly his breath before,
And creaking sounds are heard,
Mingled with sobbing, and the roar
Of waves to madness stirred.
Is busy by the wood and rill,
Changing to russet aught of green,
Or bright, found lingering still:
He treads in wrath the forest-floor
And dead leaves fly his breath before,
And creaking sounds are heard,
Mingled with sobbing, and the roar
Of waves to madness stirred.
As if he wished to travel far
From our cold clime, the King of Day
Guides southward his beclouded car,
And welcomes Evening gray:
Like friends that quit, in adverse hour,
The builder of their pomp and power,
His rose-cheeked clouds have fled;
A gloomy troop, with brows that lower,
Are flocking round instead.
From our cold clime, the King of Day
Guides southward his beclouded car,
And welcomes Evening gray:
Like friends that quit, in adverse hour,
The builder of their pomp and power,
His rose-cheeked clouds have fled;
A gloomy troop, with brows that lower,
Are flocking round instead.
341
Strange beauty fell on hill and dale
When gentle Indian Summer came
Disclosing, through a filmy veil,
A crown of ruddy flame:
She reddened with her touch the rill;
Festooning purple on the hill
Her magic fingers hung—
Through Nature sent a joyous thrill,
And tuned her harp unstrung.
When gentle Indian Summer came
Disclosing, through a filmy veil,
A crown of ruddy flame:
She reddened with her touch the rill;
Festooning purple on the hill
Her magic fingers hung—
Through Nature sent a joyous thrill,
And tuned her harp unstrung.
Oh! brief and dream-like was her stay!
A harsh, discordant voice went forth,
Driving the lovely nymph away,
From the chill, darkened North:
Robbed of its lining, soft and blue,
The welkin wore a leaden hue,
The fields a shading brown—
Wild bird and bee from sight withdrew,
And blinding sleet came down.
A harsh, discordant voice went forth,
Driving the lovely nymph away,
From the chill, darkened North:
Robbed of its lining, soft and blue,
The welkin wore a leaden hue,
The fields a shading brown—
Wild bird and bee from sight withdrew,
And blinding sleet came down.
A tyrant comes, November drear!
In twain thy mace of power to rend,
And on a pale, wind-shaken bier
Thy frozen form extend;
He will insult thy stiff remains
By loading them with icy chains,
Oh! spectacle forlorn!
Then, while the wide old wood complains,
Sound his dismaying horn!
In twain thy mace of power to rend,
And on a pale, wind-shaken bier
Thy frozen form extend;
He will insult thy stiff remains
By loading them with icy chains,
Oh! spectacle forlorn!
Then, while the wide old wood complains,
Sound his dismaying horn!
Sunshine glimmers on the hill,
Lighting up its rugged brow,
Though the warbling birds are still,
And the leaves have left the bough.
Brightness on the brook is shed,
Like soft gleam of golden ore,
Though the water-flags are dead,
And the marge is green no more.
Lighting up its rugged brow,
Though the warbling birds are still,
And the leaves have left the bough.
Brightness on the brook is shed,
Like soft gleam of golden ore,
Though the water-flags are dead,
And the marge is green no more.
342
Thus the good of earth, when age
Warps the form and thins the hair,
And the brow becomes a page
Wrinkled with the lines of care,
Smile, amid decay and blight,
Gently, like the dying year,
Though a long and gloomy night,
And a wintry grave, are near.
Warps the form and thins the hair,
And the brow becomes a page
Wrinkled with the lines of care,
Smile, amid decay and blight,
Gently, like the dying year,
Though a long and gloomy night,
And a wintry grave, are near.
On the perish'd grass and flowers
Patters now the blinding hail,
And, through cold and naked bowers,
Howls the loud November gale.
Fleet as swallows on the wing
Fly abroad the shrivel'd leaves;
And the oak, a crownless thing,
Rocks and moans like one who grieves.
Patters now the blinding hail,
And, through cold and naked bowers,
Howls the loud November gale.
Fleet as swallows on the wing
Fly abroad the shrivel'd leaves;
And the oak, a crownless thing,
Rocks and moans like one who grieves.
Thus, when pomp and power have fled
From the proud—the wrong'd—the great,
On his bare, unshielded head
Beats the wrathful storm of Fate.
Friends of yesterday pass by,
Like the Pharisee of old;
And above him bends a sky
Frowning, dark, unsunn'd and cold.
From the proud—the wrong'd—the great,
On his bare, unshielded head
Beats the wrathful storm of Fate.
Friends of yesterday pass by,
Like the Pharisee of old;
And above him bends a sky
Frowning, dark, unsunn'd and cold.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |